Void
by acidic paper
Summary: It's in a desert middle ground, a purgatory of sorts, Alfred meets Arthur and yet neither of them are completely sure what to make of it.
1. Chapter 1

He's in this weird fucking middle ground. There's desert—just hot and bright and _too much_ and his eyes hurt. He's squinting and short hairs slick with sweat get caught in his eyes when he blinks.

The heat from the sand is starting to seep through his clothes, but he makes no attempt to stand. His movements are already sluggish, even his blinking. As he shifts he eyes around there are sun spots dotting in his vision, different shades of red and orange and piercing white and he can't adjust to the change in brightness.

There's the soft sound of sand being pressed under feet and he thinks nothing of it, I_'m dreaming. _

"Look at you, boy."

That sets him in motion. He jumps and he tries to focus on where the voice comes from but he can only make out feet from the position his body's landed in.

"Haven't been here long, I presume?"

"What makes you say that?" He doesn't tilt his head to see the face of the man who's speaking.

"You simply look lost."

"A little." He knows it's a desert, so that's a start, isn't it?

"_Well_," the voice belonging to the sandy feet begins, "let me be the first to welcome you."

Sandy-Feet lends him a hand and when he stands it's now the other man's turn to look up.

"Just arrived, then." His arms are crossed and he has a stern look on his face, though the other man can't see.

"I guess. I just woke up and," he moves his hands around, "this." He's squinting at the other man, sun spots still in his eyes, though the colors have shifted to blues and purples. He can make out a stocky outline, but it isn't much.

"Looks like you need these more than I do at the moment."

He hesitates before reaching out a hand, not quite sure what he needs more than the other man. He fumbles around before realizing they're sunglasses that he's being given. They don't do much but darken the sunspots in his vision, but it's something.

"Forgetting something?" The shorter man frowns.

"Yeah, where I am and how I got here and who the hell _are_ you, anyway?" He hasn't looked at his clothes, but he imagines they're stained with sweat and frayed and realizes he probably doesn't seem like much of an opposing figure at the moment.

The other man stares at him.

"Oh," he mumbles, "and thank you."

"Better than nothing, I suppose. Arthur Kirkland. Yourself?"

"Alfred Jones."

They shake hands. "Nice to meet you, then, Jones."

Alfred's vision finally clears enough to make out the features of the man in front of him and the first words that come to mind are _battle hardened_. He wonders if that's from being trapped in this sandy void for so long or if he arrived here, wherever here was, like that, but there's more pressing matters at the moment.

"Where the fuck are we?"

"I call it purgatory, though there isn't really a proper name for it."

And the funny thing is, Alfred never remembers dying, if this is what Arthur says it is.

He remembers driving and running off the road with his head buried into the steering wheel of his truck, but he doesn't remember closing his eyes and letting go, but he supposes he did.

"It's hotter than hell, here."

"It isn't," Arthur says flatly. "Trust me."

* * *

><p>(Stylistic changes in how the fic is written are bound to come, hope you still enjoy!)<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur smokes, he learns, and Alfred thinks of picking up the habit. It isn't as if it can kill him. He's since grown used to the smokey smell of Arthur's car as they drive through the expanse of desert (_wasteland_, his mind supplies, he's been to the desert, but this is so much worse, _where everything is a mirage_) and he's come to almost crave it.

Alfred wipes the beads of sweat off his forehead with the edge of his shirt, once white and now aged and yellowed from the short time here. (_Everything_ seems to age quickly, including the people.) The air conditioner in the car is broken and despite having the windows down, nothing will stave off the heat. It even seems to get worse the longer they drive.

"Can I have a cigarette?" Alfred already has his hand on the pack in the cup holder and Arthur eyes it distastefully but nods.

The lighter is nearly out so Alfred shakes it, as though it will fill up by some miracle, but it seems to look emptier. He blames it on how fast this place exhausts life from everything in it. (That would make sense though, wouldn't it? _He'd dead_, there shouldn't be life around him. He wants to grab onto the last of it he finds, but it's slipping through his fingers like dry sand.)

He coughs with the first inhale and he can see Arthur trying not to smile from the corner of his eye and as he goes to tell him off he simply coughs harder. Alfred mumbles a _Fuck off_ and tilts his head out of the window until his chest calms down.

"Where are we going?"

Arthur shrugs as much as he's able to with his hands on the steering wheel. "I suppose we'll know when we get there."

For some reason that pisses Alfred off and he wants to stomp his feet and demand answers, but he's tried that with Arthur and it'd gotten him nowhere. The man was unmoved, an immobile force when it came to foul language or childish actions. (In Alfred's case, both.)

He settles for mumbling under his breath and nursing his cigarette slowly. It's beginning to leave an ashy taste in his mouth and dry out his tongue, but he doesn't care, he'll suffer later. It's decently enjoyable now.

The sun is starting to set, but the heat persists and Alfred wants to stomp his feet at that as well. Sometimes he has to remind himself that's he's in his twenties.

He almost makes himself laugh.


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur smokes his cigarette calmly as he drives (always driving. And to _nowhere_. Or somewhere, perhaps, subconsciously.) "How did you end up here, boy?"

Alfred doesn't enjoy the diminutive but indulges him anyway. "The last thing I remember is driving my truck into something, it was dark, but I think it was a lamp post or a tree. Kind of lame. I know it wasn't my fault and I remember someone heading towards me and then barely stopping to see if I was okay, but this shit is coming back to me in bits and pieces.

"Once I kicked the bucket I saw my face on the steering wheel like an out of body experience and the more I think about it the more it scares the shit out of me, you know? Still kind of fuzzy, but," Alfred swipes his tongue across his teeth and turns his head to look at Arthur. "You?"

"Shot myself in the head." And if Alfred looks hard enough he can make out a small circular patch of hair that's a little darker and a little shorter than the rest that he hadn't paid much attention to.

Now it clicks.

"Left a awful mark. Not as bad as the wall though."

Alfred laughs. It's explained so nonchalantly and he wonders if it's a defense mechanism of sorts—a way to combat sadness or if Arthur actually doesn't give a shit.

He settles on the latter simply because it's _Arthur. _"Can I ask why?_"_

Arthur flicks the cigarette out the window. "I wanted to be the one to determine my own death. I don't enjoy following orders, I give them."

"_Only you._" Alfred shakes his head and leans his seat back as far as the broken mechanism will take him. For a moment he thinks Arthur might be lying to him, having an underlying reason for his suicide, something darker and more painful, but he doesn't press. The older man hasn't given him reason not to trust him, as bitchy as he can be.

Conversation dwindles after, a calm quietness. Music from the radio is still in the background, but as Alfred begins to feel the onset of something like sleep, he hears Arthur turn it down.

Sometimes the old man can be alright.


End file.
